Blue Moon Eyes
by Harlequin de Rustre
Summary: Chapter One: A freak experiment breaks out of Douji. What is it?... Who is it?...


Alright, then. Here we are again.

This is another plot bunny that sprouted from my brain stem. I mean, it was too good _not_ to use- for once, at least. I really like those life-from-death stories, so it was somewhat inevitable that I'd start up another one…

Disclaimer: I don't own KOF, XI or otherwise, nor do I own the Witchblade anime. I make no profit beyond attention and criticism, no incentive beyond simple whimsy. That is all.

**~M~**

"Shion… you traitor," Magaki gushes through tight drawn lips.

Unable to call upon any of his power, the demon's eyes roll back and he breathes his last.

The triumphant fighters smile somewhat as the unearthly portal thins and disappears, leaving the now dead mastermind's cooling body alone on the barren ground.

Soon after, the proper authorities come to retrieve it. Within less than twelve hours, it is stolen from their flagship, spirited away by a bizarre group that none had heard of in the slightest.

And, soon after that, they _lost_ the body.

A little disappointing, to say the least…

**~O~**

Off the coast of Japan, an enterprising corporate lackey finds a bizarre floater bumping up next to his yacht. Without hesitation, he brings it back to his company's headquarters.

**~O~**

"Amazing, simply amazing"

"How?"

"Look at this marvelous body; it's so powerful. Imagine what will come of it. To think that such a highly evolved creature had lived among us up through maturity- look at this sophisticated bone structure, this marvelous musculature, the patterns of the lobes and synapses. It's a shame we couldn't see this while it- he- was still walking. I'd love to have seen what made him tick…"

"That's very nice, but exactly how are we to be sure that our tech will work on this? It's not human, and we all know what happened with the last animal experiments. Takayama will do more than dock our pay for a year if we have a repeat of the Doberman projects…."

"Relax; it's all under control. If it's a success, then we further this project and get a raise. If it's another botched program, just press the pretty red button and our subject has his first and last taste of weaponized electric plasma."

"Whatever you say, Yoroi-san. Let's just hope it doesn't wake up before we're ready…"

"Relax already! Nothing's gonna happen. Human or inhuman, nothing dead moves before we tell it to."

Eyelids flicker inside a treatment tank that's filled with more than just chemical-enriched liquid. Slivers of deep blue show for a moment before the lids close over again, not to open for a long time yet…

**~O~**

"Subject's progress is still exaggeratedly slow, moving consistently forward at a rate of hundredths percentile daily. Projected course: seven years until completion."

"We need this to be ready within the next three years; the market won't hold up forever on the new I-Weapons, and we need to come up with a plausible answer to the calls for an army of super soldiers."

"Sir, we won't be able to get to prototyping, much less mass production, in just three years. We don't know what to expect from this, so please be patient."

"Time is money, Sato-san; I hope for your sake that you and your team can deliver within your sloppy timeframe significantly better than the one we first set you with, or there will be problems."

"Don't worry, sir. I promise that this will pay off if we don't rush it."

Footsteps lead away from the giant tank, a mechanized door hisses open, and the two men exit the laboratory, leaving a near empty facility. The deafening silence holds for a moment. A bubble rises from the bottom of the tank, brushing by a muscular forearm. A subtle tremor courses up the limb and ripples throughout in an instant.

**~O~**

A group of men in white coats rush into the disused lab.

"It's fine? I'm surprised that the subject hasn't been damaged by the quake…"

"Never mind that. Is the equipment in working order? We need to cut corners if we're going to advance the second generation I-Weapons. Our budget was cut enough, and we know that this is just another slush fund gamble to get more of the company pie. Good data control computers are hard to come by, and I'm sure we'll find some backups that no one'll miss."

"I just hope you're right. Pass the pliers; I think I see a candidate over there…"

**~O~**

Darkness.

Can't breathe.

There's no ground.

Floating…

…

….. wait…

… where is he?

-for that matter, _who_ is he?

Strange…

Wait- he? How is he a him? "He" hasn't felt anything…

"His" ring finger knocks into something.

Glass? He presses his hand toward the smooth barrier-like sensation. It feels like it…

It's curving inward. So confusing…

…

…. how is he still alive if he's not breathing?

He floats back a bit, and his heels brush some sharp pointy feeling- probably some metal- and then some more glass.

His back doesn't meet glass, but instead there's something keeping him from it, probably the same stuff that's pressing into a few places around his spine and below his ribs. The pressing feeling seems to go below the skin… much below the skin…

He grabs back to get a hold of the offensive prods, missing them a few times and only giving a couple fruitless tugs. When he gets his fingers nice and firm around a nice fat one (which, unfortunately, has some fairly pointy, sharp rings and lines), something level with what he supposes are his kidneys.

The pulling, however, seems to do next to nothing. Then comes the pain; the presence at the base of the thing begins to shift, then ache, then hurt horribly. The sensation sharpens as the thing begins to move with his efforts. With his new progress, the pain only gets worse.

And, with no warning at all, the pain peaks dramatically as the intruding sensation slides out aggressively, the feeling akin to the bottom of something dropping out. The torture just as quickly drops from the horrible level of discomfort, although there is now a pouring sensation.

Bleeding. He's bleeding.

That's bad. It must be stopped.

Frantic, he scrabbles for the barrier, unable to really focus on one direction due to his suspension. He pounds blindly at the now-discomfiting encasement. This goes to no avail.

He gives up, although he makes a dent, a heavily spiderwebbed impact, instead opting for opening what he supposes is the top. This proves to be an even less helpful endeavour, but he keeps at it.

His forearms meet during his struggle, and a flash opens in his mind. A memory he doesn't even begin to think he possessed before. A brief blur in his mind's eye jars through his perception, one filled with chaos and a burning energy so very familiar, but not quite remembered.

Roaring fills his ears as a feeling of power and fiery power flows along conduits in his flex, out through his hands and head, and out around him. The sound of explosions and metal groaning soon follows.

Breaking from his position, the energy ceases. Taking the opportunity to escape, he leaps forward. His flight is slowed, but not interrupted, by the multiple tugs in his back.

More prods rip out of his body, one or two taking away some grisly chunks of miscellaneous flesh.

The gushing of hot liquid from his body continues, but seems to be vaguely slowing. Whether it's from some minor healing or simple blood loss is not certain, as he feels faint and drops into a skewed lump on his knees.

"So warm, yet cold…"

His lips press against a plate that feels as hot as he does as he muses aloud, his light, masculine voice muffled (so he _is_ a "him"). He touches at his face, coming up short at a hard surface. He taps the surface, which "ting"s a little."

"Metal…"

No wonder he couldn't see. Now to get out of wherever he is.

A feeling of tiredness falls on him. Not fighting it, he sinks to the cold floor, slowly cooling.

Curling up into a loose ball, he drops into slumber.

**~O~**

Fog laps at his thighs as he walks through the land of dreams. He's been here before, and knows it well.

Why shouldn't he? His existence has been within this place as far as memory recalls.

Everything, from the rough ground to the eerie bas reliefs of horned beasts of bygone days to the shuttering glow cast across the room by the orb that served as the centerpiece of the realm, was committed to memory long ago.

He glowers at the ethereal light. It serves as the only light in a world of shadow and mute chaos… and is, dreadfully, the only animate thing in the world besides the lone occupant, the dreamer himself.

In this plane of existence, there is no sound but the orb, no light but the orb, and no power but the orb. This cursed thing did nothing but mock him by being his only comfort, and it sickened him to no end to be left curling up next to the fiery ball, staring out at the darkness, musing nothings and nonsenses of no specific order.

The only reason the dreamer even keeps near it was he feels trepidation… fear, perhaps, of the existence beyond the light, of the deep, deep, unplacating dark.

He turns to the orb now in vague curiosity.

Approaching it, he reaches toward it. He looks his large, long fingered hand as it extends, then switches his attention back to the pulsing sphere.

He touches it and feels the solid surface- some sort of movement roils underneath. He puts his other hand on the orb, careful not to imbalance and thence tumble down into the void the sphere hovers over.

The sensation of movement becomes more blatant immediately. Intrigued, the dreamer shoves against the orb. The sensation wavers, but quickly reverts to its consistent pattern.

He presses into it with the balls of his fingertips. They pass through.

An unnatural heat crawls inside his fingers into his hands and arms through his bones. The sensation of his skin burns away from the parts submerged in the glowing sphere.

The dreamer becomes aware of his seeing… more… He realizes that his vision has expanded and improved, most likely from the ghostly flame that imbued itself in his veins.

His body feels lighter… stronger…

And what energy!

With no further reason, he dances.

It is a random dance, a dance of possibility.

Upon the floor,

upon the statues,

upon the ceiling,

upon the air-

the dreamer dances.

He dances well. He dances without cause. He dances without description. He dances without intention. He dances.

A footwork of ponderous chance unfolds across the lit expanse of the unnamed realm, defying knowledge or logic. No, it is not footwork- it is a work of body and soul.

Rhythm fluctuates and divides, reabsorbs and flows, and thereby conquers once unending lethargy.

The dreamer laughs.

**~O~**

Darkness is what he opens his eyes to.

As soon as the uninvited slumber had come, it left, and with it the wondrous dream it carried.

Confused, he picks his sluggish form off the floor.

Oh. Yes; the metal thing. Of course. Dammit, he'd somehow forgotten how nice it was to see, during the time he was sleeping.

Grunting hotly, the awakened one rises to his feet. Relishing the feeling of an untired, nubile body, he stretches.

He walks forward, somehow inherently aware of the doorway in front of him. It opens with a rush, and some woman screams. The sleepy escapee pays the source of the noise no heed, mainly due to the fact that he can't see her and it would do no good to worry about such trivial things. So he continues on, lazily meandering on as some half-crazed bitch squeals and hollers for all it's worth.

A chorus of shouting for someone, most likely him, to cease and desist rings out, also ignored. A couple sound knocks hit at random spots on his covered head, which he shrugs off in turn. Then a pain strikes him in the back.

The victim, now incensed, spins to face the offenders. He disjointedly shuffles toward them- to their distress. Grinning behind his helmetlike barrier, he reaches out swiftly. His hand pokes something thick and soft, and a whuffing noise issues from the man he'd evidently poked in the belly.

The short man goes sprawling, and his apparent compatriots shout fearfully and turn to run away. Letting them go for a moment, the bemused escapee grins wider.

Instinctively, he reaches forward, dimly noting the energetic sensation that his hand pushes through, and grasps one of his tormentors by the throat, his strangled cries sounding from about 10 meters ahead. He chokes the noisy man off with a clench of his hand, then hauls back and throws the captive hard.

He hears a glassy crash and a weak cry, followed by screams of horror. Without sense, he breaks into a run towards the crash, soon covering what he feels is the general length of the distance, and jumps.

The escapee chuckles madly as he plummets at an angle. It's probable that he'll end up a smear on the pavement, judging from the amount of air he's falling through.

Fate decides to be a jerk and summarily lands him in the coldest liquid he'd ever had the displeasure of dropping on. Screaming burbling oaths of blue bloody murder, the successful escapee thrashes to the top of the unpleasant soup and starts treading water in a straight line to wherever.

**~N~**

If you want me continue this, fucking review. Anon Reviews are enabled, so you have no excuse for lack of enablement.

Whilst the tone of this fic is not as down-to-earth as most acclaimed fics are, nor as wish fulfilling, keep in mind that I'm still improving and have gotten much damn better at writing hemi- demi- semi-decent fiction. I'm working through some stuff for FictionPress under the same penname, so feel free to look me up there.

But, back to the matter at hand, I need you to look at this fic and tell me in your review about how I can make it better. If you already think it's perfect, feel free to shower me with whatever praise comes to mind. I take flames and heavy criticism, as well, so feel free to unload.

Also, a pairing wouldn't be out of the question later on, but hold your peace for now- more relevant stuff like plot needs to take hold, first.

As you have noticed, this is not a vanilla fanfic- it's a crossover. Hey-whoopty.

I'll sit it on either applicable sections for now, and, after I've gotten enough of a following, stick it in the crossover sections. I'll explain my reasoning later.

For now, get you bitch azzes in `dere and review!


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